if there are any heavens
by Heero de Fanel
Summary: Post Sen/Cold Steel IV, mild SPOILERS for III and IV. Emma, Machias, and a late night conversation about mothers.


**if there are any heavens**

The mattress shifting beneath him, slight as it was, was more than enough to awaken Machias from his slumber; though he wasn't normally what you would call a light sleeper, recent developments had done their best to change that.

His eyes slowly cracked open, and he was greeted by the (blurry) sight of Emma above him, smiling down apologetically.

"I'm sorry. I tried to be as quiet as I could."

"S'all right," he mumbled, blindly reaching for his glasses by the nightstand while making every attempt to avoid the orbal lamp. Those weren't cheap, after all.

"That's quite enough of that," Emma chided gently as she tried to grab his wrist. "Go back to sleep, Machias."

"You took the words right out of my mouth," came his quick reply, managing to find the delicate frames on his third try and slide them onto his face, much to her exasperation. "You weren't sick again, were you?" he asked, his sharp features narrowing in obvious concern.

"Fortunately no," she answered, the relief evident. "This was just for a drink of water. From what I've felt so far, the nausea only seems to strike during the mornings. I can't say I appreciate its punctuality, though I have to admit it's very effective at getting me up."

"My wife, the eternal optimist."

"Hehe. Someone in this house has to be, and it's certainly not going to be you or Celine."

"True enough. Speaking of which, where…?"

Emma gestured toward the open window, the minute breeze sending waves through the thin fabric of the curtains. "Out for a midnight stroll. I can't say I blame her, it's a very nice night."

Machias nodded, sitting up and resting against the headboard, glancing down when Emma grasped his hand and threaded their fingers together without a word, her thumb tracing feather light patterns on his palm.

He sent her a sideways glance, taking in the familiar sight of indistinct creases on her brow, and waited.

"… I had a dream."

"Hmm. I sort of suspected as much."

Emma blinked, a little surprised. "R-Really? How?"

"Oh, you looked like you were thinking hard about something. I also considered the possibility of health musings," he added with a fond glance at her as of yet unrounded stomach, "but you generally fidget more when you're nervous, so…"

She blushed, evidently not realizing the depths of her transparency. "We've known each other for too long, haven't we?"

"Long enough," and he shifted over when she nestled against him, resting her head on his shoulder with her unbound hair falling in waves over her loose nightgown.

"It was my mother, I think. I mean, I couldn't really see, it was a very sunny day, but I'm almost positive that it was her."

He nodded, mentally rifling his way through the many stories she'd told him over time. "Her name was Isolde, wasn't it?"

She smiled a little at that. "You remember."

"I try."

"Nothing particularly out of the ordinary happened, oddly enough," Emma continued after a moment, looking thoughtful. "No grand epiphanies, no heartfelt conversations. She was just sitting across from me; I think we might have been having tea, actually."

"That's nothing if not fitting."

"I thought so too," Emma said, her lips curling up.

"Did you do anything else?"

She shook her head. "No, honestly. The two of us simply sat there, and I never managed to ask her anything, or even say anything. I wanted to, though."

"Like what?" Machias asked, watching when she turned to face him, shadows briefly obscuring her features before floating away to dance on the wall.

"Like what was it like to raise a child? What was _she_ like as a child? Would she have remained a stray witch if events had worked out differently? Did she have any lingering regrets? Just... a lot of things," Emma finished, a note of uncertainty in her voice. "I-I don't remember her very well, but…"

"You sound like you recall a little bit, though."

Emma paused, considering. "I think I have faint memories of her reading to me when I was very, very young," she said at last. "Singing, too. I wouldn't be at all surprised if my love of books and my pitch came from her, to be honest. Besides that…"

She trailed off helplessly, turning her palms upwards in resignation. "It seems foolish, I know. So much of my childhood was spent with Celine, Vita, Grandmother, and the rest of the villagers. It was a happy childhood, really. It's just – "

"You can't help but wonder," Machias finished softly when Emma fell silent, and when she bit her lip and slowly nodded, he understood completely. "That's all right, I think. In all honesty, there are times when I wonder too."

She gazed at him questioningly, his mouth set and serious, his eyes glittering like dark jade. He so rarely talked about his mother; this might have been the first time in years, as a matter of fact.

"Do you remember anything about her?"

He shook his head.

"Only what I've been told. Sis said she was the kindest, gentlest woman in the world, and Dad thought she hung the moon. They both say she loved me very much, and I know that has to be true. I talk with her every time I go visit Sis, and it doesn't feel out of place or wrong, but when it comes down to it… she's ultimately someone that I never _knew_. I truly would have liked to, though."

His voice was quiet with melancholy, with the weight of a hundred and one 'what ifs', and for a few moments the two were content to lie there, comfortable in the companionable silence.

Her breaths came low and even against his skin, and his lips brushed the top of her head with a tenderness that never failed to make her feel warm.

"I wanted to ask her if she'd been watching," Emma finally whispered with wide, artless eyes, the heart of the matter coming to the forefront. "I wanted to ask if she was all right with me walking the path of a Hexen witch instead of remaining on hers, a spellcaster living among the people. I… I wanted to ask if she was proud, and if I would… if would make for a good…"

Ah.

"She was," Machias breathed, drawing her closer when he heard her sniffles and felt the faint quiver. "She is, I mean. How could she not be, with everything you've done for Class VII over the years? With how you've grown as a person and a witch? With how you've done your best to make the empire a better place for those that live here, both now and in the future," he continued, letting his palm drift to the warmth of her abdomen.

Emma inhaled deeply, measured and steady, her own hands gingerly coming to rest atop his, the soft touch doing its best to soothe her worried heart.

"And as for the second part," he continued, unable to resist a small smile, "you will. I know you will. You've always been amazing at everything you've tried, and I highly doubt that motherhood's going to break that pattern."

She shook her head once, a watery giggle escaping in spite of her best efforts. "I-I hardly think that my efforts in other fields extend to something like _this_, Machias. How can you be so sure?"

Goddess, there were so many ways to answer that question and silence the doubt in her voice. He'd have thought she were fishing for compliments if he hadn't known her as well as he did.

"Because," he said, his words unhurried, gentle and open in a way that they wouldn't – couldn't – have been years ago, "you're you. You have the biggest heart of anyone I've ever met, and you've shown that more times than I can remember. Whether it was because of your grandmother, your sister, Celine, the villagers, or the memories of a woman that must have treasured her daughter very much… you're someone that grew up knowing love, and a person like that just can't help but love back."

He was proud that he had managed to hold steady the whole time; as far as he'd come over the years, Rean-like speeches never were and never would be his forte. That said, you couldn't tell it from looking at Emma, whose valiant struggle to keep her composure looked to be coming to a foregone conclusion.

"… If I tell you 'don't cry', that's not going to stop you, is it."

"Absolutely not," and seconds later Machias found himself flat on his back, Emma's arms wrapped around him like she never wanted to let him go.

He could feel the moisture on his neck, just like he could feel the smile against his collarbone when he kissed her crown through her hair.

"You're going to be a great mother."

"You have to say that," she half laughed, half cried.

"True. But I absolutely mean it, Emma. I do."

"I know you do." She quickly swiped one hand across her face before focusing on him again, her cheeks a rosy pink and her eyes the vivid blue of summer skies. "You're not playing fair, you know. I still remember when you were generally less than articulate during your more affectionate moments. Taking that away swings the scale entirely in your favor."

"In my defense, I don't think I've been that bad for quite a while now." He adjusted his glasses with a grumble, shooting his wife a reproachful look that lacked anything resembling legitimate annoyance. "But if you'd like a repeat performance with more stumbling and stammering, I could probably indulge you."

"Hehe. On second thought," Emma mused, letting her cheek come down to rest against his chest, the steadfast beat a lullaby all on its own, "I suppose that's not necessary."

"I thought not."

She giggled again, the sound of a heart well and truly at ease.

"Machias?"

"Hmm?"

Emma gingerly nibbled her lip in a tell that she had never been able to quite let go of, even now, and he watched, curious.

"… I'm sorry you never got to meet yours," she breathed, the solemn words sending an unexpected pang through his chest, and for a second for two he was sorely tempted to sidestep around them as gracefully as he could. Beggars couldn't be choosers, after all; he had the stories, if not the memories, and knew without the shadow of a doubt that he had been loved.

But…

"I am too," he confided truthfully, because the boy that would have been too angry and afraid to open himself to others had long ago been put to rest.

Her fingers brushed his arm.

"I think she would have liked you," and Emma laughed, the silvery notes echoing in the small room.

"So you've told me before. For the record, I'm fairly certain mine would have approved of you as well, assuming I really did get my taste for books from her."

"Happy to hear it." He paused to flick a wry glance in her direction, unable to keep himself from smirking just a little bit. "I don't suppose she'd have taken it easier on me than your elders did?"

"Mm. Difficult to say," Emma said with a teasing lilt. "On the one hand, her status as a stray witch meant that it's unlikely she'd share in the Hexen's… erm, eccentricities – "

"Eccentric, sadistic. Hardly a difference as far as I'm concerned."

"Hush, you. On the other hand," she continued after giving him a playful squeeze, "I am still her daughter. On that basis alone…"

"I'd probably have been stuck between a rock and a hard place," he finished with a long, drawn out sigh. "With both sides capable of slinging spells, no less."

She hummed sympathetically.

"Oh, poor Machias. The things you do for love," and much to his chagrin he could feel the blood starting to rush to his cheeks. Damn it, Emma.

"Hmph. I hope you're not expecting a dissertation on why it was worth it. I've met my speech quota for the day."

"Oh, certainly not. Two or more in twenty four hours is strictly Rean territory," she quipped, letting her eyes flutter shut and her weight settle on him again, relaxed as she could possibly be.

His brow furrowed, and he gently brushed a stray lock away from her forehead. "You sure you're okay?"

She nodded against his shoulder. "Yes, thank you. I hadn't really thought of any of that until the dream, surprisingly enough. I suppose it could have been my subconscious telling me something."

"Stranger things have happened," he sighed into her hair. "I think I'd like to hear more about her sometime – that is, if you don't mind sharing."

"Hehe. Okay. Yours too?"

She sounded drowsy already, and he wasn't surprised; she might have been a ways from showing, but there was no doubt that there had already been a noticeable toll taken on her energy levels as of late.

"Mine too. Sleep now, all right?" and he smiled when she nodded again and held him just that little bit tighter.

"Okay."

Machias waited until her breathing had evened out and grown steady before he let his own eyes close, and he drifted off soon after, unable to resist slumber's siren call leading him to rest.

* * *

_The sun was shining even brighter than it had been the last time, and Emma would have been content to simply sit there and bask in the tranquility of her surroundings if the sound of footsteps hadn't caught her ears._

_ Folding her hands in her lap, she patiently waited until the new arrival had taken a seat, once again saying nothing._

_ That was all right. If nothing else, it gave her a chance to make up for last time, and Emma was never one for making the same mistake twice._

_ A deep breath. Then a bright, warm smile._

_ "Hello, Mother."_

* * *

AN: Title's courtesy of E.E. Cummings – 'if there are any heavens my mother will(all by herself)have one.' Great poem.

I'd always wondered about Emma's mother and was a little surprised (and impressed, quite honestly) when CSIII/IV actually brought her up (pretty sure her name in CSIV was Isolde, could be remembering that wrong!), though they were vague enough for me to play around with characterization and work some headcanon in there… which of course, led to this :P

Hope you enjoyed this and English CSIII, dear reader(s)! As always, there's more fic ideas in the pipeline, so stay tuned – and, of course…

* * *

**OMAKE**

The scent of salt hit Celine's sensitive nose as soon as she got in, but it didn't take her long to relax when her gaze landed on Emma's sleeping face, content and serene.

"I guess it wasn't anything catastrophic, whatever it was," she sighed, carefully bounding up onto the bed and observing her slumbering partner (plus the grumpy one, but that went without saying at this point). "I'll just ask her if everything's okay in the morning."

With that, she turned to go and paw off to her customary spot at the foot of the bed, only to bite down a startled yowl (and keep her claws pulled back, small blessings) when she was swept off her feet without a word of warning.

When she'd been much younger, Emma had been fond of grabbing Celine for late night cuddles, much to her annoyance. Apparently she was feeling nostalgic.

"H-Hey, what – I mean this is – for the love of Aidios, **how old are you?!**" she ineffectually hissed, squirming as the witch pulled her close with a satisfied murmur, and after a few more moments of struggle Celine gave up, accepting her fate with an inner grumble.

Well, she supposed it was okay this _one_ time. Emma had been beyond exhausted lately, and it wasn't if being stuck between the pair was remotely uncomfortable. Quite the opposite, as a matter of fact…

"You owe me for this," Celine muttered with a sniff, and if she started purring when a hand came down and offered slow, leisurely pets – well, that wasn't anyone's business but hers, now was it?


End file.
